


Peonies

by Gemenied



Category: Waking the Dead (TV)
Genre: Adult Content, F/M, Romantic Gestures, peonies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-06
Updated: 2014-07-06
Packaged: 2018-02-07 18:09:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1908747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gemenied/pseuds/Gemenied
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anybody can do ten.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Peonies

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Joodiff](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Joodiff/gifts).



> This story is a meagre attempt to pay my debt to Jodiff (who also wonderfully beta-ed the story). It contains adult (sexual) content. Because peonies are very sensual flowers.
> 
> Enjoy.

**Peonies**

  
“It is a truth universally acknowledged…”

  
Boyd had read Austen, mainly because he liked women and women loved the author and her books. The logical reason why had always escaped him, but he figured it must be a female thing, inexplicable to men. The prominent position of the well-read copy amongst Grace's possessions didn't come as a surprise therefore, nor did the way she guarded it.

It was equally universally acknowledged that Peter Boyd wasn't a conventionally attentive lover or partner or whatever term applied. He held doors open, helped women into their coats and such things, but he rarely remembered birthdays, anniversaries or other events that made society and relationships roll on smoothly if they were observed properly.

He simply didn't bother.

Peter Boyd didn't do conventional, but he did surprises and he did whimsy, which was easily attested to by his choice of a life partner. Not his usual style, not what people would have expected.

Suited him just fine.

What Peter Boyd definitely had was a penchant for the grand gesture. Which, he guessed, this was.

She had not expected it, not even remotely imagined it, and the mere vision of her reactive expression had been motivation enough for him to get up at a truly ungodly hour on a Sunday morning, drive to the questionable neighbourhood around Columbia Road and wave a wad of cash around to more or less buy out an entire stall.

Peonies.

Partly because Grace preferred them to roses and partly because they looked mightily impressive with their huge blooms. Especially if they filled the house in hundreds.

The vendor had obviously thought him completely mad, but had gladly accepted the several hundred quid. And he had been right about one thing. The smell of the flowers was breathtaking in the truest sense of the word. Within hours it would have infused the house with its slightly rotting stench and probably stick to the furniture for weeks, if not months.

Worth it though. Every pound Boyd paid, every pound of fresh flowers he had carried from the car into the house under the heavy complaints of his aching back. Almost prevented the proper thank you-acts.

Almost. Not quite.

Now, he gives the single bloom on the nightstand a cursory glance. Blood-red, fully open and heavy. Reaching out he runs his fingertips over the petals. Soft and delicate. The twin sensation of the petals and her skin under his fingers. The smell of the flowers, her body and the sheets. It is sensory overload almost. The sun is already high in the sky, bathing the room in diffuse light, dust dancing in the beams.

Altogether, Boyd thinks, he wouldn't want to change a thing.

Burrowed into his side, Grace begins to stir, her spine involuntarily following the touch of his fingertips.

Boyd smiles. Grace with bed-hair, a strand almost poking her in the eye; it does all sorts of funny things to him. Especially if said eye is regarding him blearily.

"Back with the living?" he asks, not a little amused.

Her reaction is no more than a non-committal, lazy noise.

His smile widens. "Is that a yes?"

"No," she mumbles. "Still dreaming."

"Of what?" Sleepy Grace is so easy to play with.

"That you brought me flowers."

"I did. Hundreds of them," he reminds her.

"Sounds awfully like you are boasting, Boyd," she humorously chides him.

"Just want it acknowledged," he declares.

"Why?"

"They were heavy."

"Poor Boyd." The sound is amused, with a healthy dose of derision. "Want me to pity you?"

He gives her a withering glare, which is not even half-effective when lying in bed naked. At least, it doesn't work on Grace.

"The grand gesture demands its due."

"Piss off, Grace! I can always give them away."

She laughs. "Don't you dare!" and crawls up his body.

There is nothing slow or timid about her kiss or about the swift and deliberate swipe of tongue and teeth against his neck as she settles back against him. The effect on him is just as swift, his reaction wild and potent. Her languidly wandering fingertips don't help.

"You didn't have to, you know," she declares quietly, which creates a stunning contrast to the wilfulness of her physical approach.

"Main reason I did," Boyd counters laconically.

"Because you could."

"Something like that, yeah."

"Thank you," she says even more quietly and Boyd doesn't miss either the earnestness of her tone, or the tears she chokes on. He lets the moment last, just tightens his hold on her back and keeps up the gentle motion of his fingers on her back.

"You’re the only one, you know," he starts somewhat reflectively after a while.

Grace's answer is vehement and only half -joking as her fingers suddenly cramp into his skin. "I bloody hope so!"

It hurts, just a little. Just an edge that makes his attention rise.

"I didn't mean that."

Her reply isn't verbal, only a raised eyebrow, but her grip doesn't loosen.

Boyd shakes his head, not entirely certain where this is going. She surprises him too often and too easily and he can't even remotely surmise what thoughts his words create in her mind. "You’re the only person who didn't ask why I did it. The vendor and everybody I met automatically assumed I had some serious grovelling to do. Restore the peace, because I had pissed off the wife or something."

"You wouldn't dare!"

He starts. Not just at the words, but at their delivery too. Grace has suddenly risen up from her prone position and her eyes are narrowed calculatingly, which unbelievably gives her expression a dangerous touch. The way she looks at him, her stare piercing, her body suddenly seemingly much stronger is not even a challenge anymore. Her left hand still grips his chest tightly, her nails beginning to uncomfortably prick against his skin, but her right hand is wandering lower and all of a sudden, Boyd thinks he might have touched a live wire.

Her hand closes around his balls and he knows immediately that she means business. She doesn't need to say it to communicate her possessiveness, but she does anyway.

"These are mine!"

It could be a joke, taken to the highest level of dark humour, but somehow Boyd guesses that Grace is dead serious. When she squeezes, accordingly he yelps.

"Mine!" she intones again, slowly, every single letter and sound carefully and deliberately enunciated, underscored just like her wandering touch is.

No, no joke at all.

The harsh edge of possessiveness he would have bristled and fought against in the past suddenly acts like an electric current. His skin feels hyper-sensitive everywhere she touches him. Her breasts are pressed against his ribcage and he immediately feels the effect this play of power has on her as well.

It arouses her to have him under control like that, not manipulation by words and unconscious emotional acts, but by the pure and raw physical power she exerts over him. And late middle age and longer recovery periods be damned, he's painfully hard before he even knows it. The submissive role isn't Boyd's at all, but somehow....

He can't finish the thought, because her hands move quickly, mapping his skin, scratching slightly and gripping tightly. She leaves slight marks, intends each one of them, he knows, and if anything it drives him even higher.

"Jesus, Grace!" he chokes out as she sits up on top of him, one hand clutching his flank, the other running over his cock like a storm.

"Yes?"

The woman will be the death of him yet, but he's too far gone too quickly to even consider going on with that thought. She leans over, her tongue drawing patterns against his neck. It's just a matter of time before lips and teeth come into play as well.

And then the damned woman starts to undulate against him.

Boyd can't help it. He bucks, he jerks, he shouts. But she doesn't let up. Her breasts rub suggestively against his chest, nipples almost scouring him with heat. Her front seems to be glued to his, the slow, deliberate movements chafing with a slight edge of pain. And she's so damn wet, he knows, even before his own fingers head straight for the prize target.

It's Grace who yelps this time, bucks against him. And smiles.

Exactly what she wanted him to do.

The room fills with the slight creaking of the bed springs, the heavy breathing that turns into moans - his, hers, who cares? All he can think of is her skin against his, her heat against him, her wetness soaking him. She still strokes him, faster, holds him literally at her mercy.

"Grace!" he's close to begging, but she doesn't stop. Why should she? It's her game.

Her hands move, leaving trails of hot and cold all over his body. Teeth nip, bringing sharp focus to the mark she is undoubtedly leaving on his neck.

"Grace," he repeats, trying to push her closer to his aching cock. Trying to push her into relieving him from the coil of tension his body has turned into.

"Yes?" she asks almost innocently, her smirk anything but, and even stops moving altogether. He jerks again, desperate now to have her, to be active again, the leader in this.

But she just stops. "Yes, Boyd?"

He breaks, reduced to cock and balls and desperation. "Please...."

Boyd never says please – does he?

He could die while she deliberates, die of need and tension, and she would enjoy that too, and triumph over him.

Suddenly, her hands are gentle on his body, her hips moving slowly and her kisses soothing instead of stirring. It pulls him back from the edge of the sea of red he's begun to see. The reprieve is short though, before her moves become determined again, quickly driving him to the brink.

There's a visible flush on her skin, spreading over her breasts and arms. She's short of breath too, her gasps and moans interspersed with keening noises. His fingers work her into a frenzy, and close to the edge she jerks.

He doesn't need to beg again, though he would, if it helped.

Swiftly, she lowers herself onto him, not even waiting a moment to accommodate him. Doesn't matter anyway. Their rhythm has nothing easy or gentle to it. It's just about getting there... as quickly as possible, and they both love it in that moment.

Speed, heat, wild shivers, it all rolls over his body like a violent wave. It crashes against him, pulls him from his feet, almost buries him. Boyd forgets where he is, what he is. All that matters is the live wire he is and the connection he has to Grace.

She breaks first, her scream surprising him, but he isn't far behind and his roar mingles with the last of hers.

She collapses on top of him, heavy and boneless, and for a moment he is too stunned to do anything about it.

They drift interminably. At some point, his arms come around her back to hold her securely against him, and he's somewhat surprised just how damp her skin is and how cool to the touch.

Somehow he manages to finagle the sheet over them to keep her from catching a cold and it's that ridiculously domestic and caring thought that brings back some sense of reality.

"Grace?" he asks, not altogether sure where they are and how they are.

She doesn't answer, but her breath against his skin is reassuring. He wants to ask what brought this on, but can't even answer that for himself and he’s fairly certain he doesn't want to dissect it too much. Enjoy, don't ask.

"You’re not a stupid man, Boyd," Grace finally says, her voice still slightly rough and breathless.

It's a non-sequitur as far as he's concerned.

"You've invested yourself in this... us... me," she continues after a while. "Even if I sometimes can't believe that you do... Showering me with flowers to do some grovelling... it's not your style."

"No?" It's true, but he likes questioning what sounds an awful lot like psychological analysis.

Grace chuckles. "No, you bring me all these..." she nonchalantly gestures at the flowers in their sight, "...because it's not something you do and not something I expect. And because it looks stunning." As she looks up at him, Boyd is fascinated by the mix of emotions playing on her face.

"Ten would have been fine, you know."

"Everybody can do ten."

She chuckles again. "Except you."

He shrugs, then kisses the top of her head. That just about sums things up.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. Comments would be greatly appreciated.


End file.
